Lugnuts Ever Lurid: Steamy Industrious Amalgamations Of Beck And Call
by Quillon42
Summary: Envisions even more advances in technology for the city of Mightyopolis regarding infusion of emotions within the creations of Doctor White et al. On the agenda for the feels in this instance: Desire, specifically with the Ninth of Mighties on one robotic hand, and his mistress of the maroon alloys and marmalade locks on the other.


LUGNUTS EVER LURID: STEAMILY INDUSTRIOUS AMALGAMATIONS OF BECK AND CALL

By Quillon42

Considering now that all the other droids championing certain single digits had been behavior-modified after their RAM capacities were rescued by the Comcept-comceived battler Beck, a certain sort of celebration seemed to be in order. A couple of such celebrations, in actuality, to be honest.

First there was the more collective, convocating occasion of the entire mass of Mighty Numbers milling about mirthfully to cherish the fact that they had all been brought back to beneficent lucidity right down to the very Xel building blocks of which they were constructed.

Later, though, there would be a more solemn and intimate incident transpiring very much in private between two of the synthetic steelbuckets of Sanda, Blackwell, and White…one involving a more fluid, yet no less critical substance than those fundamental cells in fact.

Now the white-alloyed warrior turned the flesh-hued energy tank over in his hands, as his helpful equal stood readily by. Between his palladium palms lay that substance which was supposedly all the more essential to their operations even than Xels; something that could synthesize these Mighty ones all together into becoming ever closer to living, breathing people…like "humachines," so to speak… at this juncture.

(This author put "humachines" into Google and found all this stuff on Steampunk and SoundCloud and such…but this author honestly made it up on his own and all just now).

He looked at her that instant, at those eugenically-engineered irises of jade, gazing deeply with his own shining emerald "Go"-traffic-signal optic sensors.

"They want us to be the first test subjects, both of us together on this now."

Holding said energy tank out tentatively for the other, ravishing robot to take, Beck:

"Will you have Xes with me, Call?"

Then a pause long enough to contain the interminable wait for this author to have his XBone updated for like just one week.

…

…

…

"My response…is in the affirmative…

"…primarily, or exclusively, in fact, in the interest of advancing the technological ingenuity."

Beck thusly took that as a Yes to Xes.

…

…

…

Charging to one hundred percent within the alabaster automaton now was an anticipation which he had never before experienced. To be sure, his essence had merged with those of the other Numbers in his quest to liberate their RAMs…but that was more of an impersonal John Carpenter _Thing_esque assimilation of the specializations that made those Mights unique to their elite industry.

This was something much more mutual, much more, dare the bionic boy conclude it…intimate.

Beck monitored the horizon as he prepared himself, however, careful so as not to have the voyager yet also voyeur that was Avi happen in upon the two of them while they were having Xes. There wasn't really any occasion for worry regarding interruptions by any-bot-y, though, as most of the other Numbers were out on immensely important assignments of their own.

Brandish and Battalion were taking on various operatives from all kinds of franchises that could not afford to not take themselves astronomically seriously; between the former bot's stealthily blade attacking secretly from all directions, and the latter's expertise with all kinds of ordnance, they could easily rout all the aforementioned forces hailing from every video opus of Thomas Clancy, from _Splinter Cell_™ to _Rainbows_™ to _Completely Sucks A Man's Anus_™ to _Ghost Recon_™ to _HAWXs_™ and send all those self-important boners packing.

Seismic and Dynatron were working as hard as they could to keep back the invading mooks from Mantel, given that those drugged-up drones from the horrible opus _Haze_ from the Third Coming of the Playstation, they were all bashing and booshing their way through Beck's world. Given their onyx and amber armor, the insidious fraternity-fucker-seeming soldiers looked and sounded like Dark-Side-driven Anakin-clones with suits designed by the American charity of Alex's Lemonade Stand. It was all DynaMic could do (which the two called themselves, as they paired up in more ways than one most shippingly and such) to keep those (Lemo)Nade Nuisances (as the media machine in Mightyopolis called them), yea, those 'Nader Vaders from tearing it up too much in locales such as the Mines and the Power Plant.

Aviator and Countershade were on their way to cover the United Sectors Summit where the new rogue threat, a fucking ten-year-old named The Great Thunderturd, was bombarding world leaders with rhetorical logorrhea about the globe's environment and thus posing more of a threat to the world's climate than Sean Connery's nutbox ill-weathering villain in _The Avengers_.

(No, the _other_ film by the name of_ The Avengers_).

Fortunately for this robot-beleaguered universe, the Steven-Blum-voiced synthetic sniper was airlifted by Avi and managed to use his Ricochet Special to eke in a shot through the roof of the international edifice that bounced all along the air vents leading to the very little lady's virulent speech:

"Entire ecosystems…are collapsing!" grunted out the "Great" one as she blustered on in a superlatively belabored manner, the applause around her gentle, placating golf claps more or less.

"All you care about…are fairy tales…of eternal economic growth!"

(More moderately satiating audience response ensues.)

"_How DARE y…"_

(STNNNT)

"…

"…

"(ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ)"

At witnessing not so much an assassination, but rather the asstranquilization of this sister so Swedish, so swaddled in political punditry programmed by infinite others with their own agenda, the people present then burst into the most strident of ovations that evening. For certain, a Nobel Prize was really due to Doctors Sanda and White, for orchestrating the occasioning of the vindictive Scandi kindergartner herself collapsing into naptime, courtesy of Shade's custom trank gun.

And as for the remaining robots Pyrogen and Cryosphere…they were just preparing heating and cooling packs, respectively, for when the others would get back.

…

…

…

Now, in a facility run by the once-scapegoated-and-currently-paroled Professor Benedict Blackwell, an advanced edifice known as Robot Rehab (which, again, this author brilliantly came up with on his own despite any preexisting Googleoos), the Nine and his high-tech nymph braced themselves.

Feverishly the former consulted his subscreen, did the conscientious cream-coated contraption, so that he could initialize the imbuement of Xes between himself and his comely coparticipant. As they shared the solution, Becks gazed at Calls and thought her very beautiful; the latter looked back and designated the former quite dutiful.

Enthusiastically the brazen Beck began with a blend of the First and Second energies to prime and then infiltrate the very cherry dynamics of Call. Indeed, it was an infusion of warming flames reacting with cooling waves that brought the constructed countess into an equilibrium that was altogether unlike anything she had ever processed. From thence the siren of so many circuits calmed all the more and prepared herself to receive her science-synthesized knight now. Diligently the data-digesting dame so mounted the relatively tame technetium tumulus that made Beck a male machine.

Prompted by the Xesy stimulants so surging through him, Beck fused the Fourth and Sixth energies together, the dove-duds-ed dude dozing somewhat roughly against his consenting cadet, yet also elevating his alluring partner into midair most mellifluously.

Immediately thereafter did the vanilla Not-Mega-Man activate his Third and Seventh energies, applying what he and Call would later, um…_call_ his "DynaDish" to enact a smelt-softened blade with nodes interspersed about it, and enter the grafted girl of gamboge follicles atop him. With a

[SNAZZZZZSSSSSHHHHHH]

did the electrified epee increase the capacities of Beck's beneficently-built boo, something unusual and intriguing now awakening within Call at last.

In cost-effective tandem did the two operate to copulate now, Call conscientiously increasing the concatenations of her contractions upon Beck, she lifting then lowering her synthetic torso upon this Ninth of Mighties with consummate professionalism.

_ "Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!"_

She still stated each of the preset interjections with the same pitch and tone as she had in the past…yet there was the slightest of sensuous wavering in her mantis-mint optics that had not been there before.

"_Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!"_

She seemed to be getting into it more and more with each successive leap, though, Call steadily and sensuously changing from an impersonal entity of efficiency to a lithium-powered apparatus of love.

"_Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!"_

She would be all the more infused with the very human urge to ejaculate more than just "Jump" utterances, now that Beck was following up with his most effective of amalgamated armaments, that of the Fifth, Eighth, and technically Ninth energies united now…all to effect a bouncing bomb, smeared with the hero's shamrock "Snap Out Of It" sauce, to run rampant all along the interior of the titillating target's tender nether receptor.

_ (Banquo! Banquo! Banquo! Banquo! Banquo! Banquo!)_

Boomingly the explosions ensued within the Xes-stimulated alloyed lady, they sounding exactly as those from at least the Second Mega Man epic in which there would be emitted a BANG intonation instantly punctuated by some strange WAH immediately thereafter.

Underneath the robabe, Beck did all he could to thrust his tangelo-maned mistress into the most scintillating of passionate piques.

_ "COME ON, CALL GIRL!"_

_ (Banquo! Banquo! Banquo! Banquo! Banquo! Banquo!)_

And by now, it went without humanly saying or digitally computing, there were enough _Banquos_ present for every Agent Smith iteration in the _Matrix_ films to play the part in a production of MacBeth to the millionth power. (And then for all the said agents to please prevent the fourth Matrix from being made, as the parts past the first one were worse, honestly, than even _Mighty Number_ fucking _Nine_.)

Salaciously the sylph of so many silicates just now, she focusing her lovely lime eyes downward toward her dapperly designed lover:

_ "OH, BECKERHEAD!"_

_ (BABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABANQUO!)_

EPILOGUE

Mighty mofos all around celebrated their respective victories over the tryhard horrors that had severally attempted to subvert their android-adorned environs. With these wins, the heroes would be outfitted by various sources in their society with enhancements that would fortify them to a much more than satisfying extent.

(This author himself is familiar with such euphoric endowments, as very recently he acquired a new, gaming laptop, so very advanced that he can enjoy his Office-Depot-purchased hidden-object challenges with that much more oomph in his rig).

Yet the query quailed at them now, as each had noticed the absence of a certain two integral components to the machine of their entire operation.

Had Beck and Call bailed most callously upon their funnest of fiestas now?

Of a sudden, the familiar treacly voice of a lovely, cuddly contrivance close to their hearts and aortic appliances otherwise.

"_ATTENTION!"_

All the human beings and husks of bolts in attendance at the cybernetic sanctuary turned at the strident instruction, and were slightly more than scandalized to discover that their most fawning flower of a fabricated femme had grown rounder than Sanda.

Then the tangerine-tressed titanium miss and her bleach-bodied beau announced in tandem the news that Call, aided by the concupiscent catalyst of Beck's malachite-hued mojo during their Xesual Intercourse, was going to mass-produce a slew of litter—veritable sequels to Mighty Number 9 that would be issued against all odds, after all. Particularly the quasi-organic offspring were to be called Menial Mechas, thus now also shamelessly stealing the idea of servile robots spawned by Tron Bonne…just as Beck himself was completely so not a knockoff of the Mega one himself.

As encouraged as they were aroused by this most recent misadventure of robotic raunch, White, Blackwell, and the Sands in between the two already began the blueprints for what they would dub RealCalls, erotic automatons erected for the satisfaction of heartbroken scientists lacking real fleshly homo sapiens with whom they could couple.

Said scientists would be to a degree discomfited though, and would need to revert to a diabolically bulky drawing board for the time being, when upon attempting to enter said Calls, they received only the following, disheartening message, in the key of Call's inflection no less:

_"ERR-or."_


End file.
